A Night Ride
by NotAContrivance
Summary: Lizzie runs into Darcy coming back from a bike ride one night at Netherfield. Awkwardness and ogling ensues. And it's a little harder to hate him like that. Lizzie Bennet Diaries.


So, I started writing this fic sometime around Christmas and meant to have it finished then, but ensuing circumstances, and naturally I finish while I'm procrastinating on other things. Anyway, someone on tumblr requested Darcy in bike shorts ages ago, and I was like, hmm, I'll write that. It sounds like it has the potential for awkward hilarity. So here you go. It kind of got longer because I had to think up a plot, and it became more of a thing, and Darcy was being more awkward than usual. I kind of apologize for objectifying Darcy, but I'm only trying to even the playing field and don't mean anything offensive by it?

Anyway, this is set on July 20th, 2012 (I think? The twitter likes to screw up dates on me, so maybe it's the 21st), but basically when Darcy goes on the really long night ride that Bing and Caroline talk about. Or, in episode terms because everyone doesn't follow the twitter, like a day or two before Episode 31.

I own neither Pride and Prejudice proper nor the LBD nor any other books/things referenced nor any of the characters depicted within. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

After dinner, wanting to give Jane and Bing a bit of alone time, I managed to more or less sneak off to read in solitude. Dinner had actually been more bearable than usual due to Darcy's uncharacteristic absence, which Bing had explained with some lame excuse. Honestly, I was a bit surprised that Darcy hadn't excused himself from dining with us before so he didn't have to put up with such inferior company, especially considering all of the ultra-necessary duties he had to attend to and all of the _super important_ work he had to do. But I couldn't say I wasn't relieved that he wasn't there to stare at me across the table like... I don't even know what.

I'd say the way he stares is a little creepy, but he thinks I'm barely decent enough, so it's not my manifold charms keeping his eyes on me. I'm always really careful to make sure I don't have anything on my face or in my teeth, lest he mock me aloud rather than merely thinking all of his oh-so witty and sarcastic comments about me, so it wasn't that either. I'm not particularly unusual-looking, nor do I make a lot of funny faces around him (which would have little effect anyway since the man has no sense of humor)... and he must've found out all my faults already through his ceaseless observation and, worse still, _living_ with me and seeing me in almost every unflattering position possible. Which meant that he could only be staring at me out of some perverse curiosity, an inability to look away. As if, I don't know, I'm such a trainwreck that he can't tear his eyes away from watching me crash and burn or whatever it is he thinks I'm going to do. Either that or he just can't believe it.

Contrary to what people think, I don't actually _think_ about Darcy very often. That would imply that I was more curious about him and uncertain about his character than I am, and I know all I need to know about Darcy. Probably more than I need to know. I don't want to know him. Sadly, my viewers think he's probably the most interesting figure in my life for reasons I don't and can't fully understand, since I'm positive they'd think differently if they had actually met him. Objectively speaking, I suppose they're right. He's rich and handsome and single, and I absolutely **hate** him, so of course they're in love with him or whatever. But even I can acknowledge that Darcy is probably the most interesting of just about everyone I've met this summer, if only because of the way he gets under my skin without even trying.

He is literally the most infuriating person I have ever met. Which is saying a lot because I went to high school with Ricky Collins. His opinions, his pride, his bluntness, his utter lack of manners, his inability to express emotion, the way he dresses, his stupid hipster taste or lack thereof, the way that he always stares at me as if I've personally done something to him, the way that he never smiles or laughs... it's as if _everything_ about him was just designed to piss me off. Me specifically. I don't know what bothers me more about him: the fact that I can't just ignore him or laugh at him or the fact that he seemingly can't forget I exist. Things would be so much simpler if we could just ignore each other and never speak like normal human beings.

Anyway, I'd been wanting some well-deserved alone time, uninterrupted communion with one of my faithful friends—an old favorite novel—so I made a hasty excuse or two and darted off before Caroline could rope me into doing something girly with her or, worse, my sister invited me to third-wheel her date with Bing like she needed a chaperone or felt bad that I wasn't having even half as much fun as she was here. It's not that I don't like all of them (okay, I don't, I _hate_ Darcy, we've been over this), of course, but I'd been on edge since before I got here about a million things—how serious Jane and Bing were getting, worrying about what Lydia and my mother were up to over at Cousin Mary's, wondering how the repairs at home were going and what the remodeling meant, missing my bed, the videos and keeping them from the two men I was now living with, and running into Darcy at every turn—and I needed some down time if I was going to stay sane for however many weeks it took before the house was finally ready.

It was a nice day, still bright and sunny out, so I decided to read outside in Netherfield's expansive gardens so that I could simultaneously appreciate their natural beauty and the more refined beauty of language. I found a nice secluded spot between a big oak tree and a bit of a bramble of tangled wildflowers a ways from the driveway. I read _Jane Eyre_ happily for a few hours in the slowly-fading light. The bark of the tree was rough and reassuring against my partly-bare back. Immersed in my book and Jane's life, I didn't notice the darkness until I looked around and saw that the sky was turning a darker blue. There was a slight chill in the air, not too cold but enough to make me shiver. Since I was kind of straining my eyes to read further, I marked my place and decided to head back inside.

Before finding my way in the twilight, I brushed off the back of my doubtlessly grass-stained and dusty dress. Book in hand, I made my way by memory out towards the driveway. I took my time heading back inside, leisurely admiring the sights and smells around me. I could smell the sweet scent of flowers in the breeze. Crickets and cicadas chirped loudly in the distance. Netherfield was really a charming house, I thought distractedly, stopping for a moment just to take in the sight of it standing, white and majestic and palatial, on a subtle slope. Jane would be very happy here, I thought idly. Realizing I was staring at the house like an idiot and getting a bit ahead of myself (God, had Mom really rubbed off on me that much?!), I shook my head and kept walking, moving onto the path that led to one of Netherfield's many entrances.

I thought I heard the sound of faint whistling, the creaking of a door perhaps, in the distance, but that was probably my ears playing tricks on me. At least, that's what I thought until I ran into something solid while passing the garage and admittedly not paying as much attention to my surroundings as I should've been. Startled, I jumped, dropping my book. "Ahh!" It had gotten even darker, so the figure I'd run into was little more than a dark blur popping out of a shadow, very sinister. I felt myself falling backwards from the force of the collision and braced myself to land flat on my ass, instinctively throwing my hands out behind me.

Yet, strangely, I didn't. A large hand grabbed my waist to steady me, sliding across the small of my back and stilling my backward momentum. My sundress had a cut-out in that particular spot, so the surprisingly soft fingers skittered gently across my bare skin to cushion my spine. The palm of that hand, a bit damp and strong, broad, rested protectively in the strange sort of curve between the back of my ribs and the top of my hips, probably directly over one of my kidneys. The hand easily spanned half of my lower back. My hands came forward as I adjusted to this change in position, grabbing at whatever I could find—in this case, muscular forearms. One hand found the crook of an elbow, pulling me closer to my apparent savior, while the other was a little above the man's wrist. Breathless from the impact, I looked up at the man (_definitely_ a man) I'd crashed into and whatever oxygen had been left in my lungs vanished, like it had evaporated or something.

I was staring up at Darcy, of all people. But then again, who else would I _literally_ run into around this place? Surprisingly, he looked stunned too, his eyes wider than I could remember ever seeing them. His jaw was a bit slack, his brow furrowed in what, if I didn't know better, I might imagine to be concern. His other hand lingered in the air by my shoulder, as if he'd wanted to rest it there but refrained out of uncertainty or some other Darcy reasoning I couldn't comprehend. While I didn't generally think Darcy wanted to actually do me harm, I didn't think he especially cared about my well-being. Besides, he was the asshole who wasn't looking where he was going and almost mowed me over. He was probably just worried I'd sue him for wrongful injury or something. Naturally, I nearly jumped back from him, my grip on him loosening, but strangely Darcy leaned forward, almost as if we were doing some bizarre dance, and refused to let me go.

There was that intense look again, those blue eyes burning into me and mine like... a laser or something. As always, I couldn't read that look in his gaze, though he moved in a little bit more, pursing his lips like he wanted to say something. He leaned a bit forward, something in his eyes changing, his grip tightening a measure or so. Darcy licked his dry lips, and his stare dropped a couple fractions. I averted my gaze, uncomfortable, and Darcy took a step back.

I was a bit more focused on trying to escape the awkwardness than trying to figure out what Darcy was up to, even though I still didn't feel one hundred percent steady on my feet. I was suddenly very conscious of the fact that my body was very nearly pressed up against Darcy's. The points of his hips had accidentally brushed against my waist a few too many times for comfort, and I could feel the heat radiating off of him in waves. My skin felt weird where he was touching me—had he ever touched me before except when we were dancing, and it was even more awkward than a middle school social?—like he was transmitting the wet heat from his skin to mine. I had never been so _aware_ of him before. "Are you all right, Lizzie?" he asked suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was a bit husky for whatever reason, though it wasn't due to our proximity (of that I was certain).

I nodded, glad for once that he was so tall it was impossible for me to bump heads with him or anything like that. He'd left me little more than breathless; I wouldn't bruise or anything. "I'm fine," I said distractedly, trying not to look at him, mostly because it kind of hurt my neck to crane it back to see his face. Of course, I would be better if he wasn't still manhandling me. I looked at his throat, staring at his Adam's apple instead. I let out a weak laugh, muttering almost under my breath, "Just wasn't expecting to run into you." He let out a dry, dusty sound that was the closest thing to a laugh I'd ever heard from him, even though it was closer to a cough or a snort.

His hands and posture relaxed a bit, and he loosened his grip on me enough so that I could back up and away from him. He didn't scold me for not watching where I was going, probably because he was more at fault than I was, had been going faster, and me running into him could hardly do him any damage. Whereas running into him head-on would, for me, be kind of like running into a pillar or maybe a very slow vehicle, like a tractor or bulldozer or something. Then again, this was Darcy I was talking about, so perhaps I was being a bit too charitable. I cleared my throat, wondering why he couldn't even say anything.

Then again, this was Darcy, after all, a man of so few words it was almost a wonder he spoke at all. And of course when he actually did speak, it was so insulting and abrupt that you wished he didn't.

Something passed over his face and Darcy released me abruptly, as if I were a hot potato, like I'd burned his fingers. Truthfully, he kind of almost pushed me away from him a bit, like I was that repulsive to him. It was about as insulting as I could expect, though, and I was relieved to have his sweltering hands off of me, even if I still felt their imprint on my skin. I swayed on my feet uncertainly before recovering. Something about his expression seemed almost pained, but I couldn't account for it. I hadn't injured him, at least not that I could see... I frowned. I was pretty relieved no longer be quite so close to Darcy, much less with his oppressive heat and sweaty hands, but I still felt kind of weird. Evidently I wasn't the only one because Darcy stood there, utterly silent and still as always, staring at me, his hands in the air almost but not quite reaching for me.

He swallowed convulsively, and it hit me that he was nervous, though I couldn't account for it. There was no mistaking that brief flicker of uncertainty in his gaze or the way he wiped his sweaty hands on his thighs.

I registered that motion and then I looked at him—_really_ looked at him—for the first time since I'd run into him. My throat went bone dry in the twenty seconds it took me to give him a onceover. For starters, Darcy was so clearly clinging to his composure and dignity by a thread, and I understood pretty much immediately why he was so uncomfortable and anxious in my presence. Let me tell you, when I got finished looking at him, he was _not_ the only one uncomfortable.

For starters, Darcy's hair was damp with sweat, a stray lock of dark hair falling onto his face. His hair was a half-flattened, matted mess. It was out of the stupid side-part he neatly combed it into that made him look like he'd stepped out of a period film and was much older than a man in his mid-twenties. Though he was cooling down, a bead of sweat dripped down his forehead, temple, and cheekbone. His cheeks were, incidentally, a bit flushed, presumably from the exercise he'd been up to, though they quickly reddened further under my scrutiny. He had a bit of stubble going, which wasn't completely abnormal; we often saw him with five o'clock shadow after and around dinnertime. It amuses me because I can see how much he kind of hates it ruining his otherwise immaculate appearance.

All of this combined with the brightness and madness of his gaze and the usual pallor of his skin combined to make him look, well, a bit deranged and... almost wild-looking. I've got to say, that was never a look I imagined seeing on Darcy.

That wasn't all, of course. His shirt, already a short-sleeved navy spandex-blend, was dark with sweat in some parts and so clingy it left little to the imagination. I'd occasionally seen Darcy with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but these were the shortest sleeves I'd ever seen him in. His arms were more muscular than I'd realized, and the shirt accentuated the broadness of his torso. This broadness was impossible to notice under the unflattering ties and button-ups he wore, as was the wiry leanness (almost slenderness, really) of his physique. Then, as if that wasn't mortifying enough for the both of us... he was also wearing bike shorts. Yes, bike shorts. Fortunately, the doubtlessly ultra-high-end bike shorts were black and a decent length, a bit on the longer end, but they still... flattered his assets very well. Thank you Lycra or Spandex.

I mean, he might still be Darcy, and I hate him, but I'm not _blind_. Or dead, although the sight of him in that outfit did do a bit to make my heart race faster. It's not a crime to... appreciate the scenery, as I would appreciate the beauty of Netherfield's grounds or the physicality and curvature of a nude sculpture or other work of art.

Basically, Darcy was hot, really, really, really smoking hot—both literally, since he was sweaty, and figuratively. That fact I conveniently liked to forget came kinda crashing down on me all at once and damn. Just damn.

Some part of me dimly registered that his attire meant that he'd been biking—cycling since he was evidently so serious about it (but when was Darcy not serious?). But I couldn't stop myself from thinking _OH MY DEAR SWEET GOD, Darcy's practically __**naked**_. I'd never seen him in anything so revealing—the man took pains to wear business casual long-sleeved shirts, ties, long slacks, preferring a loose fit over tailored, in the summer while he was on _vacation_. And, you know, more than once, he even wore a waistcoat—a _waistcoat_, vest, whatever you want to call it, in the summer! He wore a robe or "dressing gown," which he always tied shut, to bed in addition to full-length pajama pants and a shirt. Before you go thinking I know that because I'm obsessed with him or doing something gross like sleeping with him (bleargh), no, I only knew that because I ran into him a couple times when I needed reading material late at night or... somehow we inexplicably ended up at the same bathroom in the middle of the night, even though there had to be at least four bathrooms in the Guest Wing, those sorts of incredible, unbelievable coincidences!

Up until that moment I couldn't even conceive of the body underneath all that clothes... not that I ever thought about it or wanted to, but, you know, there he was in front of me wearing the tightest clothes I  
had ever seen and I just...

Could not even formulate a single coherent thought. I was trying not to have some kind of really embarrassing reaction, like hyperventilating, or, worse, drooling. Trying to catch my breath and remembering to keep breathing was really all I could do. Because, oh hot _damn_ was his body worth drooling over. I blinked and attempted to tear my eyes away from him or to at least force myself to look at his face or his Adam's apple.

I was unable to do that, painfully and embarrassingly unable. Instead my gaze dropped from his bright red (and, I found myself admitting strangely charitably, chiseled) face down over the powerful, ropey lines of his throat and neck and further still. I admired what I could make out of the incredibly broad, tense shoulders (which were, I hated to admit, even better than George Wickham's) and the wiry muscles and veins of his arms. Then I let my eyes trace over the perfectly proportioned pectorals down each ripple of the washboard abs to the indent of his bellybutton. He was breathing a bit more heavily than usual, probably still tired from his hours of riding. I stared at his chest for a good five seconds, utterly speechless.

Darcy had _abs_. Darcy was a physical being. He was solid and warm, not hollow and cold. A man of flesh and blood and not a boxy robot, all sharp angles, even if he was still stiff, unyielding, and moved like he was made of metal.

My gaze wandered farther down a bit more languidly than I should've. It was like I suddenly had no shame, that I'd become no better than Lydia, ogling a man I didn't like or especially respect. Ugh, and feeling attraction for someone ordinarily so repulsive what, just because of his (how had Lydia put it—_incredibly hot, incredibly rich piece of mancake?_) body, like that didn't make me cheap? I noted the jutting crests of his hipbones and followed the curve of them. I really attempted to will myself not to look at his crotch and mostly succeeded out of the sheer shame I would've felt in being seen doing that and because I really did not want to think about... that part of Darcy. Ever. But I couldn't stop my eyes from briefly skimming over that and noting the size and leanness of his thigh and calf muscles. Muscles that were super-toned and no doubt powerful from all of the cycling. I finally settled on staring at his feet because there was nothing even remotely hot or sexy or anything about sneakers and smelly feet. At least not for me.

Darcy coughed uncomfortably, and I saw him shift a bit out of the corner of my eye. Somehow I managed not to look up (but I don't know how I managed it). "I'm sorry," he said finally, haltingly, "for running into you." I looked up into his face reflexively, brows shooting up in disbelief, and I saw his shoulders tense. For what it was worth, Darcy did actually look contrite, even despite his embarrassment. The hard lines of his face were just a bit softer than usual. I nodded, wondering why it was so hard to swallow or why I was still saliva-less. He crossed his arms in front of him, one hand clasping the wrist of the other in a white-knuckled grip. It was not a coincidence that his hands were more or less over his crotch.

He swallowed hard, standing there as stiffly as a toy soldier. "I'm..." He stopped, licking his lips, averting his gaze once again. Darcy rocked forward a little on his heels. Ordinarily I would've stared at him, trying to get him to say something else, but I was still trying to string a sentence together in my head, much less will the words out. "I didn't know anyone was out here. I didn't think I would run into anyone," he said dumbly, looking at me furtively and then looking away. I suppose maintaining his dignity took most of his energy. I blinked, wondering if that was his way of apologizing for his current state of dishabille.

Then he actually did apologize for it. Which was a pity because it was perhaps the one time in our acquaintance that he actually had nothing to apologize for. He cleared his throat awkwardly and took a deep breath, as if forcing himself to go on. "I'm sorry you had to see me like this," he said solemnly, looking a bit ashamed. He was conscious of the way he appeared, as always, and figured that the sweatiness and the tangy, salty aroma that accompanied it, along with the skintight clothing, was enough to put any woman off. That that made him somehow repulsive—it didn't, of course. Darcy's personality was far more repellent than his sweaty, disheveled, flushed appearance and the stale smell of his sweat could ever be.

It was kind of annoying, really, because the sweat was more of a shiny, drying glaze at this point, like on a donut, and the exercise brought color and animation to his usually impassive expression. And he didn't even smell very bad, really; I could barely get a whiff of it from where I was standing. Paradoxically, it added to his attractiveness, which even I cannot deny, because it made Darcy more of a real person. It was a reminder that he was a man, a _real_ man, athletic and masculine and vigorous when he wanted to be, apparently, rather than the colorless, bloodless automaton I'd become accustomed to thinking he was. And, oh, was there something strangely appealing about seeing all of that immaculate perfection wrecked and ruined and torn to shreds! A part of me wanted to tell him that he really had nothing to apologize for, probably in a tone more flirtatious than either one of us would've been comfortable with, but I bit it back.

Also, not gonna lie, there was a moment there, a moment that dragged on for far too long and that I would hate myself for later, where I wanted to make out with him. Just a little, and it means nothing because, like Lydia pointed out, I could use some man action, and Darcy was legitimately the only available man I have seen in almost a month. I later attempted to convince myself to no avail that it had never happened, and apparently my lady parts and hormones were doing the thinking for me in that instant... and yeah, I hated him and didn't act on it, obviously, but I kind of maybe like half-wanted to jump his bones. Just for a second. A tiny, meaningless, _minuscule_ second, and it didn't mean anything because it was just a visceral reaction that I probably would've had to any sweaty, attractive man I happened to encounter in skintight clothing.

Darcy swallowed hard, and I watched his Adam's apple bob with a fair measure of amusement. "I'm not... decent," he added unnecessarily. I shrugged, pressing my lips together in an awkward approximation of a smile, leaning back a bit and trying to pretend like I didn't care about any of this. I almost thought about faking a smile—a nicer one, I mean, but I somehow doubted that contorting my face would put Darcy any more at ease, and I wasn't about to do something stupid like compliment him. I probably could've tried to force some awkward smalltalk, but Darcy would've shut that down with all of his usual grace.

I turned away a little, bending down to pick up my book. "It's fine, Darcy." I felt rather than saw him relax a little. After all, he was still wearing _clothes_, even if they were sweaty, skintight biking clothes that showed off all of him, and he looked damn fine—and, ugh, I did not just think that. I shook my head a little, not as vigorously as I wanted, to shake the alarming, disturbing thoughts free from it. It wasn't as if I'd caught him doing something indecent or sexual or... he'd come back from riding a bicycle, no big deal. "I'm not... offended or anything," I added uncomfortably a moment later, not trusting myself to say more. What was I supposed to say, really?

Of course I could feel Darcy's eyes on me, burning into me. My inner monologue was far less calm. How the hell was I ever going to look Darcy in the eyes again? To _un-see_ this? To not think about this moment every time I saw him from now on? I couldn't take him seriously after this, and how could he still think I do? Whether I wanted it or not, a sheepish, embarrassed Darcy in bike shorts was now **burned** into my brain. Part of me wanted to burst out into hysterical nervous laughter... the other part of me, well, it was best to not think about that part.

For just a moment, I glanced up and met Darcy's intense and eerily bright gaze. I must've given him a knowing look—or that was how he interpreted the challenging stare I thought I was giving him—because he started, swallowing hard and looking away abruptly. He seemed to redden further. I realized a moment too late from the way he was suddenly not looking at me that my dress was gaping more than I was aware of and that I was effectively giving him a free show. I briefly pondered whether it was more respectful or insulting that he'd looked away and did not come to a conclusion in my few seconds of contemplation.

I looked down at my chest and suppressed the urge to grimace (ugh, was I blushing too?), pressing the fabric to my chest as I straightened and stood. Darcy's eyes darted down to focus pointedly on the hand still holding the fabric to my chest. It was a bit closer to my breast than was probably proper or comfortable for him, I supposed. I smoothed the fabric at my neckline over the décolletage, conscious of the unaccountable way Darcy was still staring at me. Since taking the high road was the best approach to Darcy, I resolved to pretend as if that had not occurred and placidly brushed off the book, wiping the dirt and stray greenery from the cover.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I dimly registered the movement. "It's late. We should go back in the house," he said, glancing up at the sky and then across to the house. I tore my gaze away from the cover photo of Jane and Mr. Rochester (some nameless old painting that made the book look far steamier than it was) to look up at the quickly-darkening sky. He was, unfortunately, right, but I wasn't about to admit that. Nonetheless, I nodded, tucking the book under my arm, and started walking towards the house.

However, Darcy's fingers closed around my wrist, and I froze, whirling around to look at him. His grip was gentle but very firm. Naturally, he was staring at me with smoky blue eyes that burned right through me. What did he want now? I took my book out from under my arm, cocking a hand on my hip, meeting his stare. A part of me wanted to shudder, but I remained still, as if frozen in this ridiculous stand-off, until a stray breeze brushed across the exposed section of my back, and I shivered involuntarily. I suppose my consternation at him must've showed because his grip on my wrist relaxed a little, but it was hard for me to be mad at him when I could see his abdominal muscles heaving with every breath. His stare somehow became even darker and more intense.

Unable to meet his gaze anymore, I pointedly looked down to where his hand was on my arm. His large fingers dwarfed my wrist, swallowed it, easily wrapping all the way around. I didn't often think about how he was so much bigger than me, except that time we danced together and it was pretty much my face and eyes to his chest, me staring at his bowtie for approximately four minutes, but it was rarely as obvious as seeing his hand next to mine. "Allow me to escort you," he said, inclining his head slightly, as if bowing. His thumb slid over the pulse point just above my palm, resting there, moving just enough so that it was almost as if he were rubbing tiny circles into my vein. Goosebumps rose up on my skin.

I blinked at him. The whole scenario that was unfolding felt a bit unreal, to say the least. I wasn't entirely sure of what was going on, but I recognized the vague, traitorous, almost forgotten (embarrassing) pull of attraction from long before, when the asshole who was currently holding my wrist hadn't yet opened his mouth. And I wanted it to stop. Besides, why did Darcy need to "escort" me anyway when we were headed to the same place? He was already walking next to me! "Uh, thanks, but I'm good, Darcy," I said, picking my wrist up. "Really." I stared at him, eyes wide, feeling more than a bit perturbed when he didn't take it as the hint to release me I'd intended it to be.

In fact, his grip tightened, and he leaned in a little closer to me. "I insist, Lizzie." His deep voice caught on my name, as if he'd wanted to call me something different. The way he said it seemed to convey stronger feelings, like he actually cared. It was probably because I was a woman, and, I don't know, he would've felt bad about not personally seeing me in or something ridiculous like that, as if anything would happen to me on the less-than-five-minute walk into the house. Nonetheless, I shrugged, narrowly avoiding rolling my eyes, and turned away.

Almost immediately, I stepped up the pace, so I broke free from his grip. I was relieved to be free of him and his stifling presence, even if it was for a brief moment. I never felt like I could breathe right around him; he made everything so much more complicated. Of course, his cursedly-long legs didn't even have to try to catch up with me. I tried not to look at him, to act as if every part of me wasn't terribly aware of his presence at my side. It was best to pretend he wasn't there so he didn't catch me checking him out.

I didn't have to like him to appreciate the view, after all. Just because he's... whatever... doesn't change anything, obviously, because I hated him before. I just hate him a little less now that he's mostly silent and wearing practically nothing... and my hormones were clearly trying to do half of my thinking for me. So I tried really really hard not to look because it was only going to lead to bad, awkward places.

But then Darcy's arm started brushing against mine. We both tensed at the contact. The first few times I thought it was maybe an accident, so I moved away from him, but in a few more seconds, I could practically feel his body heat leeching out into the air between us. And then his arm was back to brushing against mine, maybe even for a few seconds longer before one of us (usually me) pulled away. I was busy focusing on my feet, and, really, anything that _wasn't _Darcy-in-bike-shorts, due to the uneven ground, still not understanding him. I didn't even dare look at him (although I could feel his stare burning into the side of my face).

Then, seemingly out of the blue, he stumbled, tripping over something—maybe a tree root or a rock or something of that nature. He would've fallen, possibly flat on his face, if he hadn't reached out then, fingers closing around my arm like a vice-grip, and caught himself. I bit my lip, grimacing. "You should really watch where you're going." Then I stopped and looked over at him, noting the slightly pained expression on his face. He was too busy scrutinizing the ground to look at me, much less apologize for grabbing my arm hard enough to bruise, though his grip loosened almost as soon as he'd found his balance.

He started walking again, as did I, but Darcy didn't let go of me... for whatever reason. Instead his hand turned, and his fingers curved around my arm, coming to rest in the crook of my elbow. I gave him a somewhat pointed and incredulous look, naturally, but Darcy either didn't see or pretended not to. He probably didn't see since it isn't like Darcy to passive-aggressively ignore things that bother him. We were walking so close that our shoulders and arms bumped a few times until he somehow brought me even closer so that our arms and shoulders were pressed against each other. I was acutely aware of this fact and couldn't help it.

It's like there was an alarm or the unpleasant buzzing under my skin that was there pretty much every time I was close to Darcy and made me want to jump away from him. Naturally, I gave him a weird look, but if he wasn't going to say anything about it, and _he_ was the one holding on to me, then I wasn't going to say anything either because the moments of discomfort would be over soon enough. Not that every hair on my body wasn't standing on end because of it.

I did, however, need to somehow distract myself from the awkwardness and the buzzing and the silence (well, not really silence or even quiet since there were crickets and cicadas and birds and all sorts of night creatures making sounds, but still). As usual, I sought to fill the silence with speech. "Did you have a good ride?" I asked, briefly looking over at him. Then I heard what I'd just said and looked down at my book, fighting the urge to cringe. "A good _bike_ ride," I clarified. He'd come out of the garage, so I supposed that was why I hadn't seen either the bike (probably some really fancy ridiculously expensive shiny contraption) or the helmet.

His fingers tightened around my arm a little, probably unintentionally unless he was trying to give me a little squeeze the way someone I actually liked would (which I doubt). "I suppose," he said after a moment. He didn't sound satisfied or even tired, really. I rolled my eyes; typical enthusiastic Darcy. He'd missed dinner, and if he was just getting back now, he'd probably been out for hours and biked miles. I turned and gave him another weird look, and this time he actually met my gaze for a second, eyes widening, before ducking his head. "It wasn't as... productive as I thought it would be," he added a moment later, frowning to himself.

Productive is a weird way to describe a bike ride, but I guess Bing did say Darcy liked to "puzzle things out" when he had a lot to think about. Bing had mentioned vaguely that some things were weighing pretty heavily on Darcy's mind recently, but he hadn't said what—probably because he didn't know. Darcy didn't really seem like a sharing type, certainly not the kind to talk about his feelings... if he even has any. "Oh?"

He nearly startled me by turning to look right at me. "I expected to... come to a conclusion," he said stiffly, something about his eyes softening a little. "That is, to come to a decision one way or the other," he continued, gesturing frustratedly, "after availing myself of time to perfectly reason out all the options and make an objective cost-benefit analysis." I looked away from him, just barely managing to stop myself from rolling my eyes at how robotic he sounded. When, if ever, would he learn that you couldn't make all decisions rationally and objectively like some sort of economic man? Once again he squeezed my arm unconsciously, and I almost jumped out of my skin. I jolted and looked over at him again.

Darcy sighed, his expression intent and unreadable, though he seemed somewhat irritated with himself. He did seem to be the sort to hold himself and the people he associated with up to impossible standards. "I thought it would be simple if I had the space away from any potential distractions-" I clenched my jaw; it was hard not to think myself among the _distractions_ he needed time away from, and it was equally impossible not to feel insulted. He wasn't exactly thrilled about Jane's and my presence here and hadn't exactly made an effort to make either of us feel welcome, unlike our hosts. Then again, I wasn't sure Darcy was ever happy or pleasant about anything. In fact, I'm pretty sure the guy lives to be a surly and melancholic cloud of misery, so maybe it wasn't out of character, and this _was_ him trying to be nice.

His jaw tightened, a shadow passing over his face. "Going for a ride usually helps me get my mind off of things, but my thoughts were all over the place. A mess." The way in which he said this, just as stiff as you can imagine, with more disgust than I would've thought possible, led me to believe that this was not a man who was often conflicted or who was used to experiencing cognitive dissonance. I could practically feel his displeasure at not being able to get his thoughts in order, much less being able to have full control over his mental state. What on Earth could he possibly be so... confused about? He was hardly the sort of man to not know his own mind, after all.

"Every time I thought I came to a decision, something else would occur to me, and I would reverse myself. I do not vacillate."

I can call Darcy a lot of things, but I would never say he was indecisive. I would've never thought he was this vague either, but apparently I was wrong about that. He looked over at me almost expectantly, as if he actually wanted to hear what I thought about this. He had a look about him, too, like he was going to start pacing. Aside from raising my eyebrows and wondering why he was telling me all of this, I didn't really have a response. I didn't know what, if anything, he expected from me, much less what merited so much consideration, so I couldn't actually tell him anything, much less what he wanted to hear or its exact opposite. He still stared at me, though, focused as ever, and I was starting to get uncomfortable, so I knew I had to say something.

Biting my lip, I puzzled over it for a second. It wasn't like I cared what Darcy thought about me or if I pissed him off, after all. That had never stopped me from telling him my opinion on any subject before, and it shouldn't stop me now, even if that subject was his own life and whatever he was debating... not that I had any right or sort of expertise there or even any clue what we were entirely talking about. After a few moments of consideration, I shrugged. "Generally, Darcy, if you have to think about something this much... you probably shouldn't do it," I said bluntly. His eyes widened a little at that, and he cocked his head as if he'd never considered this. "If just _thinking_ about it is causing you this much trouble, then... don't. Maybe it'll go away on its own. And maybe it just isn't worth it if you have so much uncertainty about it."

He blinked, no doubt processing that. One got the feeling that Darcy wasn't used to people questioning him or telling him things he didn't want to hear. The way he looked at me sometimes made it pretty clear that he wasn't at all used to people like me being so honest with him, people who didn't care what he thought about them and weren't at all trying to impress him. "I... somehow doubt that. Very much," he said almost dreamily. I saw him lick his lips out of the corner of my eye and quickly looked away.

By that point we were almost at the house, on the very edge of the porch, just out of sight of the windows. I saw the end in sight, and I was more than a little relieved. Talking to Darcy always put me on edge and made me feel like I was somehow performing. It was like anything and everything I did dissatisfied him.

I really thought that was the end of it, so I'd turned away and was preparing to climb up the last step before the porch, a step ahead of Darcy, even, when he pulled me back.

I gritted my teeth, annoyed at his presumption, but I froze and slowly turned around as his grip shifted over my arm. He was actually somehow two steps below me, despite him being virtually my shadow and his legs being so much longer than mine, so we were almost eye-to-eye. "Lizzie," he said in that usually serious and intense way he had of doing and saying everything. His voice was a little lower than usual, but everything else was the same, just about. His chin was perhaps a bit higher than usual, and he'd tilted his head to the side just a little. And there was something about his eyes, something earnest and anxious. My name seemed somehow loaded, like a bomb ready to blow. It had never sounded quite like that before, and I didn't know how to feel about that.

Raising my brows, pressing the book to my stomach, I stared directly into his eyes (not like that, ew). "_What_?" I asked a bit abruptly, noticing how his thumb rested on the inside of my elbow like he was trying to press his fingerprint into my skin. His hand was heavy on my arm, holding me there.

He swallowed hard, his brow wrinkling as his eyebrows knitted together. His fingers tapped out a nervous beat over my elbow. His hands had been somewhat sweaty the entire time, so I wasn't especially surprised by it—probably something left over from clutching that bike for hours. "I..." he began, lurching forward, reaching out with his other hand. I stared back at him expectantly. He swallowed again, and I began to wonder if he would ever say anything. "I find... I find..." he trailed off but did not look away. If I didn't know better, I'd have said he was stuttering, that he'd lost his nerve. He seemed to be forcing himself to stare at me. "The more I see and the more I think about it, the more convinced I become that some sort of action is necessary on my part."

The words were carefully measured yet weighty. What he said and the way he said it, coupled with the way he was looking at me like my response determined his actions, it felt like he was talking about something else, something underneath that. Was he trying to tell me something? I frowned a little. Searching. That was the word for the way Darcy was staring at me. I didn't exactly like it. He was looking at me like he wanted something from me. I clutched the book to my stomach more tightly; what were we even talking about? "Um, okay?"

Real eloquent there, Lizzie. Though, really, what else was there to say? I kept expecting Darcy to say something again. He looked like he wanted to, even opened and closed his mouth a few times. His eyebrows came together again, his lips parted. He moved to take a step forward but then drew back, exhaling heavily. His free hand came up to his head, pushing the damp strand of hair off of his brow and running his fingers through his already wrecked hair harder than necessary. He kind of grimaced, but as if he were actually in real pain (apparently he wasn't adverse to _that_ kind of face-contorting). "I..." he tried again.

Just spit it out already and stop wasting my time, Darcy.

I sighed, throwing a longing glance towards the door. He'd contradicted me, no surprise there. If I was an egomaniac like Darcy himself, I could assume that he literally lived to be contrary and unpleasant to me. Well, far be it from me to tell Snobby William Douchey the Third or whatever how to do things, much less how to run his life or make his own choices. That was the kind of thing Darcy would do to us mere mortals, after all, and I would be the first to admit that I knew next-to-nothing about the jerk. The fact that I hadn't even tried said a lot about how much I did not want to associate with Darcy. "Look, Darcy, just do what you _want_. Whatever that is," I conceded, making sweeping (yet angry) gestures with my free hand. It's not as if I care, I added mentally, refraining from saying it as I frequently prevented myself from saying rude things or insulting Darcy to his face. It wasn't my life, after all.

His eyes widened at this, and his grip went a little slack. I guess it came out more irritated and apathetic than I intended. His jaw dropped a little, and he just stared at me for a really long moment, looking conflicted. Like he wanted to do something but couldn't because of whatever stupid reason he'd invented. And I had no idea what the hell any of this meant, just that I wanted to go inside and try futilely to get the outline of Darcy's every muscle out of my brain.

Why did I even waste my breath telling Darcy to do that? Had the man ever done something he actually wanted to do just because he wanted it? He was always working on his computer or else taking calls on his phone, snapping at his friends, going around as if he'd never enjoyed a damn thing in his entire life, and he probably hadn't. When he was out, he generally didn't drink and didn't even look at women, much less do anything more than fake-text on his phone and snark about the drunken idiots around him. He was always too busy doing what he was _supposed_ to be doing or what was the best thing to do or the most responsible, and that, well, living life with a stick that far up his ass had to be pretty exhausting. I could _almost_ feel sorry for him.

With some trouble, I jerked my arm free from his and headed back into the house. He lagged behind a moment before following hot on my heels, actually so close that I could, at times, feel the toes of his sneakers on my heels. The kitchen and lounge were empty, meaning that my sister and our friends had probably retired early or else gone out without us. The problem with big houses is that it takes much longer to get anywhere in them, especially when it was dark, and I only half knew my way around at best. Darcy had been living there for a few months, off-and-on when he wasn't flying off on business trips, but he knew the house only a little better than I did due to his habit of sequestering himself in his bedroom.

Unfortunately, we were both headed to the same place: the guest wing. Which had not been big enough for the both of us for my tastes. It was almost like he was literally lurking around every corner waiting to run into me. My life here felt, at times, like a cartoon. Here I was, always bumping into or meeting up with the one man I hated most in the world. It couldn't have been an accident, after all, every single awkward encounter, most of them absent of any conversation at all.

I ran into Darcy leaving my room for breakfast. I ran into Darcy coming back from the bathroom at night. I ran into Darcy when I was coming back from a shower, dripping wet, hair in my eyes, and trying frantically to hold onto the towel wrapped around myself (more than once!). I ran into Darcy when I was on my way to get something from my room. I ran into Darcy when I'd gone back to my room to change clothes for whatever reason—because I'd spilled something on myself or had just come back from the pool or insert-reason-here. I ran into Darcy when I was returning from having snatched a midnight snack from the fridge and felt guilty, and he was aimlessly roaming the halls. Sometimes I was even sent to fetch Darcy so that he'd participate in group activities, if Caroline wasn't around to do it and Bing was too (pre)occupied with my sister.

If he was _planning_ to keep running into me, he couldn't have done a better job of it! Not that I understood why. Aside from running into me when I was practically naked and dripping wet, it was pretty clear he didn't enjoy any of our interactions (his reaction to that was pretty much the only way I figured out Darcy didn't want to frolic in meadows with other dudes). And he was always trying to make awkward conversation about the most inane things unless we were arguing, in which case he suddenly became as eloquent as character in a nineteenth-century novel, complete with overly formal language and four-syllable words.

Naturally, as if he could read my thoughts, Darcy chose that moment to attempt to start a conversation. "You like this book?" he asked, reaching over to tap the cover once then twice. No, Darcy, I'm reading this book because I hate it, but I hate it just a little less than I hate you. Nonetheless, I nodded, briefly looking over at him. If I'd cared at all about being polite, I might've attempted to smile, but I was tired and counted it as a victory that I hadn't rolled my eyes. I thought I was being clever, using his own trick against him. I thought that would discourage any further response.

But I was wrong, and he did not allow my taciturnity to end the conversation there. Darcy quirked a brow, shooting me a somewhat skeptical look. "What do you think about Mr. Rochester?" he asked, glancing furtively at the book. His knuckles brushed against the back of my hand, and I pretended not to notice. I tried very hard not to flinch and draw away from him like he had some contagious disease. His voice was as stiff and deep and emotionless as usual.

Naturally, I arched a brow. There was no mistaking his tone or, rather, the disapproval in it. Not that Darcy approves of anything. "I take it you're not a fan," I replied, wholly unsurprised. It occurred to me a second too late that I had foolishly given him an opening there, and I could've kicked myself for it. We'd climbed the stairs and gone down the first hallway; my room was almost in my sights. I picked up the pace a bit, proud of myself for not looking over at him or checking him out.

He shook his head, easily matching my strides because he is a giant. "Not of him, no," he said quietly, his jaw tight. His entire face darkened, as if he was thinking about something more than the book, something deeper. "Deception and... disguise of every sort is my abhorrence," he confessed. The words came out bitter and thick with something, just the faintest bit gravelly. That stupid, weirdly sexy lock of hair had fallen back onto his face, just above his eye.

Maybe I should've listened a bit more or probed further, because despite this profession of candor, Darcy had always been a man with a lot of secrets. But either way, I was certain he wasn't going to tell me anything. By that time, even if he'd told me the most interesting story in the world, I probably wouldn't have listened. I wanted my bedroom and solitude and to stop being forced to interact with a hot, sweaty Darcy. And even if I'd viewed him favorably, I wouldn't have expected him to tell me anything.

I faltered and stared at him incredulously for a long minute. Every time he opens his mouth and says something like that, like he's a character in an early eighteenth-century novel, I can't even believe that he's a real person. Apparently he also noticed we weren't exactly in sync because he stopped and turned to look at me. That stare soon became the intense, would-petrify-and-intimidate-a-lesser-person glower of hatred or whatever it was. Char liked to call it a smolder, but, frankly, having all that unnerving focus directed at me is super creepy and not... anything else. "Right," I said absently, hugging the book to me almost protectively.

Catching sight of my door, I relaxed minutely and started speedwalking to my door, everything just shy of running. I didn't want to be alone with Darcy, feeling like I was holding my breath the entire time, just waiting for something—an insult, a sharp word, his clothing to evaporate entirely, whatever—to happen. Nor did I want to be conscious of his presence at my side. "Night, Darcy!"

I could feel Darcy more or less behind me, several feet away, though. Like some kind of bizarre spidey sense. He slowed his pace to a crawl. "Goodnight, Lizzie." I frowned to myself. His voice was a little quieter. It sounded different... almost disappointed? He cleared his throat, making a vaguely strangled sound, like he was trying to make himself say something. I almost turned around. He sighed heavily, keeping whatever words he had to say pent-up inside of him. "Sleep well." His voice was little more than a whisper.

I felt him pass behind me, undoubtedly headed for the bathroom at the end of the hall. At first I relaxed a little, starting to open the door to my bedroom, but then I thought about Darcy in the shower. And as much as I wanted to pretend it was because I was mad I wouldn't be able to brush my teeth for a while, I knew that wasn't it. I made a face at the thought; this lapse in judgment would not and should not repeat itself.

Just as I was about to step into my sanctuary, a very Lydia-like urge struck me, and I paused. The opportunity was really too good to pass up. Considering how Darcy's mere presence had been messing with my head for the past few minutes, ruining an otherwise perfectly lovely evening, I figured I was due some payback. I spun around, his name already on my lips. "Hey, Darcy!"

Darcy whirled around even more abruptly, tapping his fingers on his thighs as if he didn't know he were doing it. He made some sort of assenting sound. His mind was probably on his sore muscles and the wonderful shower he was about to have. "I forgot to tell you something earlier." His eyebrows shot up (in alarm?). He looked equal mixtures curious, confused, and some other emotion I didn't know him well enough to discern. Apparently I've had enough practice reading the nuances of his facial expressions recently to get the basics down.

I let my lips curve up into a smirk and looked him up and down deliberately, the way my youngest sister would. Minus any slightly more obscenely obvious flirting because this was still _Darcy_, and I wasn't about to give him any other ideas by licking my lips or eye-sexing him or staring at certain body parts. Plus that would be super awkward since I still have to live here and see him because of Jane. "Nice shorts," I quipped.

My grin widened. As predicted, Darcy froze and went tomato red. He blinked, uncertain how to take my pseudo-compliment. If I'd really wanted him to have a heart-attack, I could've winked à la Mom or commented on how he filled out said shorts. I was a bit disappointed he didn't try to hide behind something or cover himself. After a moment, he swallowed hard and threw me a look that was almost pleading. I understood it to mean that it was an unspoken agreement between the both of us to never mention this again, and I was perfectly fine with that. So I waved at him. I managed to avoid commenting on his shower, mostly because I was pressing my lips together to hold in any of the laughter that wanted to get out.

He turned away from me slowly, rather unwillingly, still flushing all the way down to the base of his neck. And I'm ashamed to admit it, but I couldn't resist taking advantage of the opportunity to check out his back. My eyes trailed over the sharp, powerful shoulder blades and muscles with them, down bumpy vertebrae that became the shallow of his spinal column, which flattened into the plain of his back. Then there were those two small indentations at the base of his spine. I just stared at his ass for a solid thirty seconds before I managed to snap myself out of it. Darcy was best when he was walking away.

Then I went into my room, closing the door behind me, and flopped down onto the bed. For a moment I just stared up at the ceiling before the awkwardness and surreality of the past however many minutes hit me. It didn't take long, and before I knew what I was about, I found myself laughing uncontrollably and unreservedly. I hadn't laughed like that since before I'd gotten here, so I tried to muffle it, lest someone overhear and think I was insane. But then I replayed the past few minutes and the expressions on Darcy's face, and I laughed until I cried.

Apparently Darcy was good for more than I realized.

- Loren ;*


End file.
